Loud, wild Cuban music wasn't my father's style of seduction. His was Brazil, the subtle strains of Tom Jobim and Astrud Gilberto. He particularly loved Brazil 66 doing "So Many Stars," the understated rhythm fading wistfully at the end, like a plane disappearing in the twilit distance, by which time the woman had melted in his arms and would be eased into the Wurlitzer Elektrika.